


Blonde Angel from Hell

by mother_finch



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: F/F, Gen, mother-finch fiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-14
Updated: 2015-07-14
Packaged: 2018-04-09 07:04:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4338602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mother_finch/pseuds/mother_finch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>PROMPT: RootxShaw prompt where Martine joins Team Machine and is constantly flirting with Root and Shaw gets extremely jealous because she has feelings for Root</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blonde Angel from Hell

"Ach _uhoo_!"

Sameen Shaw turns her head towards the sound, just to see Root in the entryway of the subway station; tissue to her nose and eyes rimmed with red. Discarding of it, Shaw can see the sickly tint to her skin and the flatness of her usually wavy hair and turns farther on the bench to watch her. Root spots her, and her tired eyes pick up, glowing radiantly. She begins to make her way over; however, someone stops her.

"Hey, Cutie, you okay?"

Shaw's blood curdles at the sound, and her fingers tighten into fists upon seeing the figure appear from the shadows. Shaw takes in her blonde hair from behind, pulled tightly into a bun, and the snappy pantsuit she wears. It brings an involuntary sneer to her face. She would never get used to seeing her here. She can see red painted fingernails as she places her hand on Root's shoulder; Shaw clenches her jaw.

"I'm fine," Root replies with a slightly stuffy voice and polite smile. "Thanks, Martine."

* * *

 

_Martine. Martine Rousseau._  The name leaves a bad taste in Shaw's mouth.  _After all that the team had been through- with her as one of the hounds on our heels- she just became a loyal guard dog?_  Shaw asks to herself snidely.  _I don't think so._  Yet, for the past two months, Martine had proven herself not only a trustworthy asset, but a vital one as well. The secrets she knew of Samaritan were groundbreaking leaps over old dead ends and bridges that linked things without the slightest connection before. As much as Shaw hated to admit it, Martine was an important addition to their team.

They talk a while longer quietly; then, Shaw watches as Root shuffles past Martine with an awkwardness in her eyes. Once away, she quickens her pace, coming to sit next to Shaw. Root pulls out a tissue and blows her nose. From this close, Shaw can see each tired crease in her brow- already run down, and at only nine in the morning.

"You sure you're alright?" Shaw asks her, looking with little interest straight ahead. She keeps her tone and posture casual, all the while stealing glances out the corner of her eye every few seconds.

"I'll be fine," Root assures her in a more relaxed manner. "Just got a cold." Shaw nods, leaning her back against the bench.

"What did the Blonde Wonder want," Shaw asks flatly, eyes directed straight at Root now. Root, an amused smirk quirking the corner of her mouth as she turns her doting gaze on Shaw, looks her over.

" _Blonde Wonder_?" Root asks, unable to contain a small rumble of laughter. "Is  _that_  what you're going with today?" Shaw can feel an annoyed tick in the back of her head, and her eyes narrow.

"Would you prefer something  _else_?" She asks with distaste. Root lets out another charming laugh, shaking her head.

"No, I think this is the  _nicest_  of the ones you've come up with so far." Shaw rolls her eyes.

"What did she want?" Shaw persists.

"Told me to grab some tea the next time I'm out to help." At the words, a sliver of a smile comes to Shaw’s lips as she gives a contemptuous snort.

"I could have to you that," Shaw says, words biting.

"Then why  _didn't_  you?" Root's tone is playful, eyes narrowing as she leans slightly closer to Shaw, who can feel her ears begin to redden defensively. "What's got you so hell bent over her anyway?" Root asks, a sigh in her voice as she looks oddly Martine's way. Shaw can't decipher the gaze, and it instantly angers her.

"I don't trust her," Shaw replies bluntly, voice raised slightly, not minding if Martine so happens to hear it. At the words, Root's gaze drops back to Shaw, something like relief mixed with curiosity in them.

"Why not?"

"Because she almost  _killed_  you, Root," Shaw belts out with a note of exasperation. Then, seeing the smirk beginning to spread on Root's face, she hurries to continue. " _And_  me. And who's to say she won't go and try again with all of us?" Root rolls her eyes at that, crossing her legs to where the toe of her boot rests against Shaw's leg.

"I think you should give her a chance," Root says at last, eyes focusing just past Shaw as someone walks their way. A moment later, Martine sits beside Root, a little too close for Shaw's comfort. She gives Root a warm smile before tilting her head out farther to look at Shaw. Her smile drops a little, but her eyes are still more or less pleasant.

"Shaw."

"Rousseau." Martine's smile falters at the frosty tone in Shaw's voice, and she sits back in the bench.

"So..." Martine says, patting her hands down on the tops of her legs. "Any plans for the day?" Shaw, past the prickling irritation of having Martine around, couldn't help but acknowledge her metamorphosis. She started as a sinister, cold hearted enemy. One of the people after them most, wanting nothing more than to eliminate their existence. Shaw could remember her brown eyes locked in a fatal glare with a smirk cold as ice coming for her blood at the strip mall not long ago.  _What changed?_  Her occupation. She went from one of Samaritan's most highly praised operatives, to a woman on the run from her own kind, to a comrade as dead as the rest of them. Just like the others on their team, Martine didn't truly exist in any database, merely taking on any alias or cover thrown her way for the sake of the job. And with this change, she seemed to become a different person to them. She easily put her life in their hands- at first with nothing to lose, then with pure trust. She was making strides, risking her life endlessly to prove her loyalty to the people she hunted for far too long.  _I still don't like her._

"Depends on if we get a number," Root replies, sliding Shaw's way, her boot now digging into Shaw's leg painfully. However, she doesn't say a thing, a satisfied blossom stretching within her. Martine matches her movement, coming even closer than before; the blossom withers. "We'll probably be getting one soon, though."

"Two," Harold's voice jars them all, and they turn, six eyes directed his way. "A Mr. and Mrs. Turner. I've sent you their files; they should be having lunch at the Petrossian at noon."

"In all the time I've known you, you've never been wrong." At the affectionate coo, the three turn to face Martine, who has her eyes on Root. Root's cheeks get a half shade paler, but a smile comes to her face none the less. Shaw, blood starting to boil all over again, stands noisily, rolling her eyes. When Harold gives her a questioning look, she merely sneers, brushing past him and heading for the exit.

______\ If Your Number's Up /_______

"We're kind of like Charlie's Angels," Martine muses as the three walk down the street. They all travel side by side- Root between them- radiating that they are a force to be reckoned with. After all taking a quick detour to their homes to change, they head down the street in short dresses, heels, and varying degrees of enthusiasm. Martine's tank is running on high. "Except, well, we're listening to an AI, not a billionaire on a radio."

 _Please,_ Shaw thinks for the umpteenth time, ponytail swaying left to right with every other step.  _Just. Shut. Up._

"And we have earpieces too, which is like them. I bet if we tried we could-"

"Hey, Cameron Diaz," Shaw snaps, and Martine halts mid-sentence to peer over at Shaw. Shaw, looking her dead in the eye, continues. "Stop." Her gaze is cold to their new addition, and Root gives her a soft bump on the shoulder, a sign for her to play nice. Martine only smiles at the harshness of her tone, eyes amused, and continues as if just to make Shaw's life Hell.

" _Cameron Diaz_?" Martine echoes back distastefully. "No, I always liked Lucy Liu best." Peering over to Root, a cool, seductiveness plays in her eyes, and her white teeth show between lips as blood red as her dress. "Root?"

"Hm?" Root responds, turning her head to face Martine. Her smile only deepens wickedly.

"Flip your god damn hair," she says, eyes narrowing before she lets out a small laugh. Then, she does the unthinkable. Shaw can feel her teeth grinding down to the gums as Martine takes a lock of Root's hair, spinning it around aimlessly between her fingers. Shaw's frustration reaches a fever pitch, and it's all she can do to not blow her top.

 _Don't touch her,_  she wants to hiss, venom in her words like a black mamba's strike. Or to attack her, fangs bared and claws outstretched, ready to break each of Martine's fingers one at a time. _Don't touch her._ Shaw can feel the steam spewing from her ears like a kettle left over a flame too long, eyes shrieking murder.

"Can we stop messing around and just get to the numbers?" Shaw spits, seething. Martine, catching the fury in her gaze, toys with Root's hair a moment more before slowly letting it slip from her fingers. Once her hand is down at her side, Shaw finally lets out the breath she'd been holding.

Coming up to the restaurant's grand entrance, the three women walk in, serious gazes with faces written in sophistication.

"I see them," Root says discretely behind a smile, and Shaw and Martine glance fractionally that way.

"I've got our perp," Shaw breathes out next, spotting a man three seats over, dark blue jeans and plaid shirt sticking out awfully in a restaurant filled with business suits and dresses. Upon reading the files sent to them, the only lead they had so far was an ex-boyfriend and present stalker of Mrs. Turner. Although he had a restraining order placed on him nearly three months ago, the man traded Louie Vuitton for Levy jeans, and Bvlgari cologne for an overgrown beard, causing the dashing man to blend in everywhere in the city- except for here.

Checking her phone quickly for the photo, Shaw gives a nod, confirming her statement. Then, stowing it away, the three move to the waiting line, one couple away from being seated.

"Who's going in the back?" Root asks, and the other two women look at her- Martine's questioning visible; Shaw's implied. Root sighs, giving them both a slightly irked look. "Was  _no_  one listening when we agreed to have one person in the back of the restaurant?" The talk comes back to Shaw, and she nods.

"I think Shaw would be good for it," Martine offers, voice sincere but eyes holding a devilish gleam as she watches Shaw from the corner of her eye.

"And  _why_  is  _that_?" Shaw retorts indignantly.

"Oh,  _please_ ," Martine says with a chuckle. "Have you  _seen_  your people skills?" Shaw crosses her arms.

"You don't need 'people skills' to  _eat_. Besides, the two of  _us_  have been at this together  _longer_ ," Shaw informs her, gesturing between Root and herself.

"Which is all the reason for me to have a shot at it," Martine retorts.

" _No_ ," Shaw responds, muscles coiling tightly. "It means  _we_  keep doing what works while  _you_  go in the back."

"No-"

" _Hey_ ," Root says, silencing them both with a glare. Then, she takes a moment. "Martine's right; we have to change some things up." Martine's face contorts in a Cheshire Cat grin, and Shaw is more than tempted to rip it from her face. "So the two of  _you_  can stay out here;  _I'll_  go in the back." At that, Martine's face drops. Both turn to her; however, before either has time to protest, Root is gone.

At once, Shaw can feel the tension building between them, and it only grows once they are seated across from one another. They stare each other down; not touching their waters, nor their menus. Even when Shaw discards of her jacket, her fatal gaze does not waver. When a server finally comes up to them, a ravishing smile takes over his sun kissed features.

"Aren't you two a lovely couple," he exclaims pleasantly. They both break their stare to throw loathing glances his way, and his Caribbean sea eyes flicker with fear.

"We're  _not_  a couple," Martine explains, paired with a strained smile and kind voice.

"We're not even  _friends_ ," Shaw adds, bitter undertones in her words as she takes a side glance Martine's way.

"Uh, then what are you?" He asks, a slight quake in his young voice.

"Associates," they say at the same time, then wear matching scowls at the coincidence, eyes meeting explosively once more.

"Well, um, ladies, may I interest you in drinks?"

"Something strong," Shaw growls. "This is gonna be a long night." From her side, he bewilderedly takes the request down, too frightened to ask her to elaborate, then turns to Martine.

"A martini will do," she tells him, eyes narrowing on Shaw. Without another word, he barely refrains from running off. Then, annoyed and furious beyond belief, Shaw fixes her eyes on their main suspect whilst Martine keeps her gaze on the Turners.

"Hey, Sweetie, you got a second?" Root's voice is slightly patchy through the ear wig, but Shaw can still hear the stuff of her nose and the scratch in her voice. She goes to answer, but just as she opens her mouth, she hears another voice respond instead.

"For  _you_?" Martine asks, voice curling in a pleasant purr. "I have all the time in the world." Shaw's temper shatters, and she can feel herself leaning in over the table, fingers itching to wrap themselves around her neck.

"I was talking to, uh, Shaw, actually," Root comes back, slightly uncomfortable. "Meet me in the bathroom?"

Shaw slides from the booth, standing with a smug smirk on her lips. "Sure thing," she replies, cocky eyes locked in on Martine before she heads off.

She weaves her way through the tables, making sure to blue jack Mrs. Turner's phone as she slowly passes, then scurries to the restrooms. Upon entering, she finds only two people. One washing her hands, the other leaning against a bathroom stall, eyes intently boring into Shaw's. Shaw stalks forward, heels clicking loudly against the smooth tiled floor, and she meets Root with an even gaze. When she sees Root open the stall's door, she raises an eyebrow.

"Trust me," Root says, gesturing for her to go. With a false-courteous smile, Shaw steps in, then- when she is sure Root can't see- rolls her eyes.

Starting to speak, she turns. "So what's u-..  _what_  are y-" Root has one hand to Shaw's ear and the other holds one finger before her own lips, silently telling Shaw to keep quiet. She obeys. Shaw can feel Root brush strands of loose hair from her way, then there is the loud sound of a clicking dial. Shaw's nerves rise, yet she swallows them all down, forcing herself to remain indifferent.

Finally, Root drops her hand, leaning easily against the stall's wall, and Shaw breathes.

"What was that about?" Shaw asks, noticing the lack of sound coming from her earwig. "Why'd you shut it off?"

"I needed to have a talk with you," Root replies before grabbing some toilet paper to blow her nose.

"About?"

"How are things going out there?"

"I've only wanted to shoot her  _thirty-six times_." Root folds her arms, narrowing her eyes Shaw's way. Shaw's sure it's meant to look menacing, but she can't help the quirk of a smile that comes to the corner of her lips. "How are things going on your end? You look like you could use a DayQuil."

"I could probably use the whole box," Root admits with a smile, then turns serious once more. "But I think our guy is working in the kitchen."

"What?" Shaw replies. "But we saw him sitting at the table. I've been watching him since we got here."

"I don't think it's him though," Root tells her, eyes clouded in thought. "I saw a guy, he was all clean shaved and in nice clothing, but I'm certain that it's him." Shaw thinks back to the photo and the identical man sitting in the booth, staring directly at Mrs. Turner throughout the night. She sighs.

"You're  _sure_?"

"Positive." Shaw's eyes search Root's tired ones a moment; she nods.

"Okay, what do we do then?" Shaw asks, leaning against the stall door as well. Root slides out a knife she had concealed in the hem of her dress and starts tracing it along the plastic wall.

"I'm going to trail him for a little; see what he does," she tells her, eyes on the wall. "If he begins to do anything, I'll tell you, and you can come. Tell Martine to watch the numbers."

"Like she's gonna listen to  _me_  when she could be fawning over  _you_ ," Shaw retorts bitterly, then bites her tongue, ears turning hot. Root shoots an amused glance Shaw's way before finding her knife once more.

"No need to be  _jealous_ ," Root chastises humorously, and Shaw spits at the words.

"I'm not  _jealous_ ," she says heatedly, eyes coming to slits as the lie burns a hole through her stomach.

"Uh-huh," Root agrees skeptically before continuing. "Anyway, just wanted to let you know what I saw." She gets ready to unlatch the door, but Shaw grabs her arm lightly, and Root's eyes glow. Shaw's heart thuds rambunctiously in her chest at the look, and she wants to pull her hand away, but something inside stops her.

"Wait, Root, is that it?" She asks. "Why didn't you tell all of us over the phone instead of having it go by word of mouth?" Root stops dragging her dagger across the wall but doesn't draw her attention from it.

"Just didn't feel like arguing with her over the plan," Root mumbles out. Shaw's lips pull into a smirk.

"Or you don't want to talk to her," Shaw shoots back coyly, ducking her head to the side so Root has no choice but to look at her. At seeing Shaw's face, her cheeks grow cyanotic. "Aren't  _you_  the one who told me to give her a chance?" She continues, a small giddiness she can't quite place growing within her. Root's eyes harden.

"I am, and I think she's great to have around, but..."

"But what?" Shaw presses, devious smile taking her over now. "You don't like it when she calls you ' _Cutie_ '?" She jokes. Root's eyes can't seem to stay fixed at one thing, let alone at Shaw.

"I'd rather you call me it," she says coolly, and Shaw looks away with disbelieving laughter. She stops, face turning far too serious for her own liking on the subject.

"Really?"

Root smirks. "See you later, Shaw," she says, then disappears. Shaw watches the space where she was for a time, then sighs, resting her head against the wall. She tries sorting out if Root was joking or not, but soon gives up, her head hurting too much from overthinking. Closing her eyes, she slides her hand down the wall to find the door. When her fingers dance across the scratches Root made in it, she opens them to peer over.

To her slight dismay, there is nothing but disorganized scratches there. Rolling her eyes to relieve the pang of disappointment she doesn't understand from her head, she walks from the stall, smooths her dress down in the mirror, then returns to the table to see two drinks and a cool gaze awaiting her.

"Everything okay?" Martine asks when Shaw sits back down.

"Fine," Shaw replies, powering up her earwig once more.

"What did you guys talk about?" Martine continues curiously, all previous hostilities gone from her tone as she swirls the toothpick around in her drink. Just then, the realization hits her that Martine hadn't heard a thing.

Keeping the smug satisfaction from her countenance, Shaw makes her tone composed, eyes terribly serious, and answers.

"Nothing."

_______\ We'll Find You /_______

After twenty minutes and half a meal later, Shaw had filled Martine in on the conversation, but only as much as she had to. As tempting as it was, Shaw held her tongue about why Root couldn't tell them all together, no matter how many times Martine attempted to call her bluff.

"Rousseau, I'm  _not_  explaining this to you again," Shaw says with a sigh of exasperation. She was too tired to even keep an angry front. "How hard is it to see that  _us_  talking  _together_  is a lot more normal than both of us sitting around looking like we're talking to  _ourselves_." With a last, disbelieving look, Martine drops the subject, taking a sip of her drink and fiddling with her napkin.

"I don't know how much longer they're gonna be here," Martine informs them both. "They've been here a lot longer than we have; their check's on the table."

"Well, if  _they_  leave,  _we_  leave with them," Shaw responds, glancing over her shoulder to evaluate their state. She can see the couple laughing over glasses of wine running dangerously low, and estimates they have about seven minutes.

Neither one of them had heard a thing from Root since Shaw returned, and- despite Shaw's collected appearance- she'd grown quite concerned at minute five, and bone rattling mad by ten. It wasn't like Root to keep quiet so long, even if she was thinking things out under her breath. However, there was white noise coming through the line, paired with voices- just none of them Root's.

"How ya doin'?" Shaw asks quietly into her ear piece. For a moment, there is no response. Then, just as Shaw is about to stand, she hears light coughing.

"I'm fine. How's lunch?" A flood of relief floods Shaw's system, and she visibly relaxes in her seat.

"Sucks," Shaw replies, winning a contemptuous glare from Martine.

"It  _would_  be better if you were here," Martine coos, and it is Shaw's turn to sport a disdainful glower.

"Maybe next time," Root tells her kindly. "But I'm trying to figure this guy out. He doesn't seem to have any sort of pattern. It's like he dresses to work here, but he doesn't have a job. He's kind of just walking around. A little twitchy; he keeps looking out the door's porthole."

"Honey, are you  _sure_  this is our guy?" Martine asks with the sickeningly sweet tone of an adult asking a child if they  _really_  saw a monster under their bed.

"She knows what she's talking about," Shaw snarls defensively. Then, in a calmer tone, she asks, "Is there anything I can do?"

"I've been trying to get into his phone," Root replies after a minute, "but he's not standing still long enough, and I'm afraid if I get too close to him he'll know something's up."

"Sounds good to me," Shaw says, standing. In all honesty, anything besides sitting across from Martine sounded feasible to her. She grabs her jacket, slides it on, then heads towards the entrance.

"Wait," Martine calls, scrabbling up. "I'm coming."

"Like hell, you are," Shaw snorts, rolling her eyes. When she sees Martine steadily approaching, a heavy cloud of annoyance settles over her. "Are you deaf, or something?"

"I can help."

"The  _plan_ ," Shaw says to her in a dumbed down manner. "Is that  _you_  stay  _here_.  _We_  go, and  _you_ \- wait for it-  _stay_." With that, Shaw purses her lips in irritation, then turns. To her utter distaste, heels click along half a step behind her.

"Why do  _I_ have to do it?" Martine whines back. "There's nothing going on."

"Well, what happens when they’re in danger?" Shaw asks tightly.

"Oh, please," Martine replies with a sadistic laugh. "The only thing  _dangerous_  to them in this place is the  _food_." Shaw's muscles tighten with each step she takes; however, she says nothing more. Behind her, Martine sports a triumphant smirk that Shaw cannot see, but wants to smack from her face nonetheless. They sneak unnoticed into the back rooms, where the restaurant gives way to a tiled labyrinth of hallways and two-way doors. The farther back they travel, the more the heat suffocates them, pulling their hair out of uniform and bringing a sweat to their brows. People hustle to and fro like ants in a plastic farm, all knowing their places and needing to get there without delay. A few of them stop, looking Martine over curiously before scurrying off, muttering silently to others around.

"What's wrong with  _them_?" Martine asks, unease setting her jaw with defensive hostility as she leans in towards Shaw.

"Maybe they're confused," Shaw replies tersely, and Martine's brow furrows.

"Why?"

"Oh,  _I_  don't know," Shaw spits sarcastically. "Maybe it's your  _carmine_  dress in a place of black and white?" Martine gives her a snide look, but says nothing else, merely casting malicious glares to anyone who looks her way. Soon, everyone in the back walks by with the silence of a graveyard, some shielding their faces, others whispering, pointing, and nodding before running off.

Suddenly, the sound of clattering pots and shattering glass clashes with screams and surprised exclamations from somewhere further on, and the two women break into a run. The sounds grow as they take a multitude of rapid twists and turns, gaining their own entourage of gasps as they reveal their weapons.

Just as they come to what looks like a dead end, one of the double swinging doors bursts open on the left side, and a woman with dark, wavy hair and a white dress is shot from it, smacking her back forcefully against the opposing wall. Without missing a beat, she raises a gun straight ahead, firing three times. There is an ear splitting shriek from the room and a messy thud from somewhere out of sight.

"Check the room," Shaw barks forcefully, rushing forward with an iron mask and steel gaze. Martine bursts forward, gun drawn, taking in the scene. Shaw receives a glimpse of frightened faces speckled in red as they all slowly back away. Then she brings her full attention to the woman before her, eyes still livid.

She takes in the crimson flowers spreading across the white fabric's waistline, and the matching, mist-like trails that fade to nothing as the dress continues. One shoe is snapped at the heel, causing her to stand slightly off-center. As Shaw's eyes travel back up, they take in the pure white that clashes vividly with large, dark red drops at the collar.

Drip.

Shaw's attention snaps right to her face, and her jaw juts to the side, anger at the circumstances faltering as she takes in a sickeningly bloody nose. By the looks, it could easily be broken, but the woman doesn't seem to notice any ounce of pain; she's only breathing heavily from her mouth. A trickle of blood trails its way to her top lip, and she brushes it aside with a delicate hand sporting bloody knuckles. Shaw grabs the hand before it can drop back to the woman's side, and her eyes flash in pain.

"What happened," Shaw demands, harsh gaze on Root. Root gives her a lopsided smile, eyes glowing affectionately at the look on Shaw's face. Concern. "What is this?" Shaw asks, eyes slipping to the blood smeared at her waist and back up.

"Don't  _worry_ , Sameen," Root coos, obviously in bliss past all of the mayhem. "It's not mine."

" _Yeah_?" Shaw asks, not amused. "Well,  _this_  is," she says, poking a finger at the thick trim of Root's dress.

"We got in a little fight," Root assures her, dipping her head down and giving Shaw a sly look. Shaw keeps her gaze steadfast on Root, trying to look authoritative, but it has no effect on her. Root's eyes drift to the still slightly swinging doors, where she catches a foot lying lip on the ground. A cunning smirk comes to her face as she looks back to Shaw. "But I'm pretty sure I won." Shaw shakes her head incredulously.

"You're  _insufferable_ ," she mutters, but her eyes show she doesn't mean it.

"If I'm so  _bad_ ," Root replies craftily, "why are you holding my hand?"

"I'm not," Shaw snarls.

"Then can I have it  _back_?" Root lifts the hand Shaw's gripping before their faces with a devious glint in her chocolate eyes. In the brightness of the fluorescent lights stretching across the hall, Shaw can see the sparkling of small glass shards where Root's skin is split. Shaw can feel her ears reddening angrily.

"No." Root smiles gleefully at the response, and Shaw looks away from her, feeling the dire need to punch something.  _Where's Rousseau..._

Shaw's contemplation is cut off by the distinct smell of food burning, and her attention turns to the room Root was thrown from only a minute before. Steeling her nerves and hardening her eyes, Shaw yanks Root into the room, ignoring the fluster she feels reaching up to paint her cheeks as she shoves Root's hand into a large sink. Root's grin is unforgettable, eyes screaming their delight at the treatment.

"This is fun," Root comments amiably. Shaw doesn't respond, just sprays it off quickly with high power, watching the few glass fragments slink down the drain. Then, she travels down the line, pillaging the cabinets- ignoring the workers’ aghast stares- until she finds an unopened bottle of alcohol for cooking. Cracking it open, she comes back to the sink, locks Root's hand still at the wrist, and begins to pour. Instantly, Root sucks in a breath, fingers tensing as her hand involuntarily jerks back.

"Still fun?" Shaw asks, then places the bottle down, stealing one of the clean towels on a wrack and wrapping Root's hand tightly. She snatches another one, soaks it in some water, then hands it to Root, scanning for the last member of their trio. Looking around, she spots Martine at once, red dress making her stand out like a giraffe in an aquarium.

"Should we be going?" Martine asks, gaze falling on Root's covered hand with a frown. Shaw raises her eyebrows in a ' _you think_ ' way, and Martine narrows her eyes. Then, she steps over the man on the floor without another thought, heels clicking with a harrowing echo down the hall, and- after Root and Shaw share a look- they follow.

________\ Blonde Angel from Hell /________

It was tedious work, ducking back into unused rooms and pressing themselves to the walls as staff and first responders rushed past them. Martine had it easy, able to walk past them with nothing more than an act of confusion if someone stopped to ask her a question. Taking it to her advantage, she cleverly steered passers down passages branching away from Root and Shaw, making the going less tough on escaping the halls. As simple as it could have been for Shaw, too, to walk right on past the responders- especially with her toned down wardrobe- she stuck close to Root, making sure to walk in front of her if an impromptu staff member rushed by, or to turn around, pretending to be submerged in deep conversation as they passed, concealing Root's bloody nose. Finally, after what seemed like hours, their faces met daylight, skin touching the cool afternoon air just as police cars roar up the road. They keep their gazes innocent but away from the officers, zigzagging from street to street until they are certain they can relax.

"So what happened back there?" Martine asks Root with eyes wide in sympathy. Shaw's stomach turns sickeningly.

"There was all this chatter about Homeland Security," Root responds, removing the towel from her nose and throwing it in the nearest dumpster. "One of the waitresses came into the kitchen talking about remembering the agent's face from some huge drug bust in September. It was named after an animal or something." At the mention of the event, Shaw's mind instantly flashes images of a dark apartment, her rifle poised out the window, and an old wooden house. A car with a boy-  _Ben Hasan_ \- and John Reese storming to his rescue.

"The whale," Shaw says silently, and Root gives her a confused look. At her other side, Martine stiffens.

" _Shit_." Both women turn to her curiously, but- at the look on Martine's face- Shaw's arms fold menacingly.

"That was you, wasn't it," Shaw asks, although her biting words say they already know the answer. Martine responds with an apologetic shrug of her shoulders.

"A face like  _this_  is hard to forget," she replies simply as they all begin walking once more.

"Sadly," Shaw agrees, and smirks microscopically at the anger that radiates from Martine at the remark. Her moment of satisfaction is extinguished by the sound of a sneeze, followed by a long string of thick-voiced swears. A slight spray of blood dots the ground, and Root holds her nose in her hands, eyes shut tight. Where they came from is unknown to Shaw; but she watches as Martine hands Root an endless supply of napkins, which she accepts graciously. Once the white stops turning crimson, Root tosses them out, nose red and eyes reflecting the dying traces of ghost pain. Then, she gives a shiver.

All at once, a chill seems to wrack her; her teeth chatter against her fight to keep them clamped, and her skin flushes.

"I think the medicine just wore off," Root informs them, voice twice as muggy as earlier; moreover, chopped to pieces by the chatter of her teeth. Root brings her hands to her elbows, hugging herself tight.

"Here," Martine says, sticking her hands out, palms up. "Give me your hands." It instantly rubs Shaw the wrong way, and she can feel the hair of her neck standing on end. Root hesitates before releasing her hands’ tight holds with sluggish speed. Then, just before Root acts, Shaw finds her voice past blinding vexation.

"That won't be necessary," Shaw tells her, unable to hide the snide undertones in her voice. Martine's eyes draw up in a challenge, and Shaw's accept it gladly. Slipping off her jacket, she throws it over Root's shoulders, then brings the edges across her arms. Shaw leaves her hands on Root's upper arms almost possessively, eyes daring Martine to say a thing. She doesn't.

Under her gentle hold, Shaw can feel Root stiffen in surprise, then melt, relaxing easily as she leaves Shaw's hands in place. Root's eyes are bright like the sun, spilling out a drunk euphoria as she fights a smile tooth and nail from her face. It doesn't work well, and Shaw can feel her ears growing red with fluster as Root's contained smile makes like pressure in a glass chamber. It's like she's holding her breath, the only way to contain the joy she feels. Then, she breathes, and the chamber shatters into a million pieces, smile taking over her entire face and a light pink livens her pallid cheeks. Shaw, chancing a glance up at her, feels her heart stutter, and she scowls at the feeling.

"Smiling like that is going to make your nose hurt worse," Shaw warns in a sheepish grumble, unable to suppress the warm glow spreading within her. She wants to squash it, but can't- having to deal with it as it travels in her veins and squeezes into every fiber of her muscles, forcing upon her an alien feeling of floating. Root doesn't heed the statement; in fact, the caution only makes her grin widen.

"I don't care," Root replies, voice distant with contentment, eyes rapidly going between Shaw and the alleyway straight ahead. Shaw is slightly stunned at the tone of the response, expecting some sort of suggestive, double-meaning response that was aimed at riling her. However, there was none of it there, and it only seemed to make her usual response burst through the roof. Shaw swallows hard, mind like a hamster on a wheel. Running and running and running nowhere.

From the corner of her eye, Shaw can see stringy blonde hair, brown eyes, and red lips directed at her past Root. Turning her head, she sees Martine- bun near catastrophe- raising her eyebrows a mile high. She looks between the two of them before mouthing, 'Ooohhh.' At the visible flush in Shaw's face, Martine releases a silent snicker, standing straight once more.

Shaw, frustrated, feels her fingers tightening on the jacket. She stops, mortified, knowing that that could possibly be the worst thing to do, like pouring ten gallons of kerosine on a bonfire. Teeth grinding together, eyes verging livid, Shaw quickens the pace, all the while trying to sort out a worthy cover to unravel when they get back to the station.


End file.
